


breña

by deadlybride



Series: A Perfect Circle [11]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode: s05e22 Swan Song, Established Relationship, M/M, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 13:33:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9609641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: April 30, 2010. Sam and Dean wait, knowing what's coming.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A Perfect Circle - _Breña_ , track eleven on _Mer de Noms_

_Show me lonely, and show me openings to_  
_bring me closer to you, my dear—_  
  


Dean keeps thinking about time. Can’t help it.

Sam stirs, at his side. Dean keeps his eyes on the window, where the half-drawn curtains are barely keeping out the slowly darkening gold of the afternoon. A hand pets down over his naked back, smooths down his flank in a heavy stroke, and Dean stretches out under it, tries to focus on the warmth, the weight. He’s got his arms folded under the thin motel pillow, but they kicked away the covers in that first frantic fuck, hours ago, finally alone where no one could see or interrupt. The sheet’s wrecked, beneath them. What’s left is just this pillow, and Sam—the long, warm, familiar body, tucked in against his side. They’re pressed together at hip and shoulder, Sam’s leg snugged up against his, and now Sam’s hand on the small of his back, stroking slow circles with one restless thumb. Some family group from next door clatters out onto the sidewalk outside their room—a man’s voice calling for them to hurry up, or _Mount Rushmore will have walked away!_ Little-girl voices shrieking dismay. Sam huffs, and Dean finds he’s clenching his fists tight, tries to relax them. They listen as car doors slam, as an old engine whines to life and drives away, and then it’s quiet, again.

“What time is it,” Sam says, soft.

His breath is warm against Dean’s shoulder. Dean shrugs. “Don’t care,” he says, and it’s too-low, gravelly, but so what. Not like Sam’s going to say anything.

Sam makes a noise, kind of like disapproval, but too quiet to really count. It’s what Dean expects to hear from his little brother, though, and he turns his face into the pillow, squeezes his eyes closed. He hasn’t cried, not yet. Maybe it’s because the horror of what’s coming is too great. Too big to even think about. “You think Bobby’s right about those signs in Des Moines?” he forces out, to distract himself.

There’s a pause. “Probably,” Sam says, after a few seconds. “He or Cas will call, when they know.”

Dean nods, his face moving against the too-warm pillowcase. He’s having a hard time breathing. Bobby came and found them, back this morning when Dean was just sitting on the Impala’s hood, with Sam silent next to him, and he took one look at their faces and he must’ve known the conversation they had, but bless him, he didn’t say a thing. Just let them know that there were maybe some demons they could bleed, down in Iowa, and that he’d go check them out. That he and Castiel might not be back for the rest of the day. Dean had nodded, too fucked-up inside to speak, and once Bobby was gone, once they were alone, he should’ve been able to—he should’ve said—

The hand on his back slips over to his hip and tugs, and he lets out a shaky breath into the pillow but turns over, as he’s urged, because he’s not going to deny Sam a thing. Not today.

He ends up flat on his back, the pillow shoved up against the cheap fake-oak headboard. Sam props himself up on his left arm, raised halfway to sitting, and just looks at him. Dean licks his lips, feels himself flushing, but he lays there, spread out and naked, and looks back. Sam’s tan, lately. Bare, there’s no way to distract from how he’s also just—big. Grown up, and up, when Dean can still remember him as a little smartmouthed fragile thing, looking up to Dean. Like Dean ever knew what he was doing. Dean reaches up and touches his arm, where the curve of bicep’s bulging out; traces that up to his shoulder rounded with muscle, then over his tattoo, then over his heart. Sam catches his fingers, there. Traps Dean’s hand flat against his warm, living skin.

Dean can’t believe this is happening. He can’t believe he’s not fighting this with everything that he has. He drags his eyes up, a little higher, even if he dreads it, and Sam’s just—watching his face. He’s got a tiny furrow of concentration there, between his eyebrows, his lower lip caught between his teeth. His hair’s completely screwed up, and in other circumstances Dean might grin, but instead the only thing that comes to mind is that this is the last time he’s going to see it, like this. All fucked up from sleep or from Dean’s hands in it, from Sammy scrubbing through it during research or after he works out, and Dean could just—“Sammy,” he says, thick, and Sam looks right into his eyes and Dean sees that he’s thinking the exact same thing, and his fingernails dig into Sam’s skin—but then Sam’s leaning in, he spreads his hand wide over the side of Dean’s face and kisses him, knocks his mouth open with his own and tongues into him, deep, slow, their teeth knocking together clumsily. Dean closes his eyes, winds his arms around Sam’s neck. He’s holding onto his resolve by the barest thread, like trying to haul a ton of lead in with a single strand of fishing line, but there’s no other choice. The universe has brought them to this—after everything, they’ve arrived at this horrible, gorgeous summer’s day, just a few handfuls of hours left until the world cracks in half. Sam lets out a little sob of a noise into his mouth, his fingers slipping back into the too-short hair at the back of Dean’s skull, and Dean slides his hands down, gets them around Sam’s waist and drags him, urging, spreads his legs to get Sam between them. Sam pulls away from his mouth, ducks his head down against Dean’s shoulder, his breath rasping loud and too-fast against Dean’s skin, but he’s hardening up, warm and stiff down against the inside of Dean’s thigh, and that’s it. Dean grips his ass tight in one hand, slides the other up into his hair and clenches, pulls a little, and Sam jerks between his legs, slams a hand down against his hip, and—yes, that’s it, Sammy, _please_ , and then Dean pulls his knees up high, wrapping himself up and around all that dear familiar weight, lifts his hips and then the push _in_ , slick where Sam’s already used him twice, a stinging deep ache, and he closes his eyes, keeps Sam close enough that there’s hardly room for him to thrust—but he does, grinding in close, his hands heavy and bruising on Dean’s skin, and they breathe together, hot and close and suffocating, the bones of Sam’s forehead crushed in tight against Dean’s, his nose on Dean’s cheek, their mouths slipping slack and open against each other.

After. Sam’s shifted them around so he’s laying on his back, Dean sprawled out over his front. He’s got to be crushing Sam, but he remembers, from his own looming death—that’s the point. He tucks his face in against Sam’s collarbone, curls his fingers where they’re crammed in under his shoulders. Sam settles both hands on the backs of Dean’s thighs where they’re spread around Sam’s hips, thumbs stroking in repetitive circles. Dean’s sticky-wet, leaking, sweat-sheen all over him, and it reeks of the two of them in here. He wishes they could never leave.

“What’s it like?” Sam says, soft into his hair. “After.”

Dean swallows. He knows what Sam’s asking. There’s no answer. His hell was nothing like Sam’s will be, and there’s nothing he could say that’ll help, and, anyway—“Just—not yet, Sam,” he says. He settles his weight more heavily onto Sam, their bellies slipping slick together, and presses his ear tight against Sam’s chest, listening for the thud of his heart. The squared light of the window is a little dimmer. Who knows how long ‘til Bobby’s call. He has to take what he can get. “Not yet.” Sam’s breath hitches, but he settles one hand tight over the back of Dean’s neck and doesn’t say anything more. Dean listens to Sam’s heart, trying to ignore the tick of the face-down bedside clock. They breathe, waiting.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/156909173119/bre%C3%B1a)


End file.
